Consequences
by Celandine Brandybuck
Summary: Faramir makes decisions and has to live with the results. Work in progress, currently on hiatus.
1. A Wizard Returns

**Author's note:** This story is a sequel to "In His Brother's Shadow" and is set approximately seven years later.

**I. A Wizard Returns**

_T.A. 3005_

The guards at the gate looked surprised when Mithrandir answered their questions about his business in Minas Tirith.

"You're here to see the Steward?" the shorter man said doubtfully.

Mithrandir glanced down at himself. He had to admit that his grey robes were especially shabby just now, and that his recent stay with Radagast and his fellow wizard's assorted animal companions had not been kind to his hat, either. Drawing himself up to his full height, he replied, "I am. I have news of lands to the north that he will doubtless wish to hear as soon as he may." Which, if not precisely true, was not entirely false, either.

The two men looked each other and shrugged. "If he's lying, the Steward will be sure he regrets it, and he seems harmless enough. All right. Go on, then."

The wizard set off through the crowds that filled the streets and market squares of the first level of the city. It was nearing sundown, and some of the shopkeepers were beginning to carry their wares inside for the night, closing and barring their shutters. He passed through the gates to the Second Circle and continued trudging upwards. As he climbed, Mithrandir noted that more dwellings had the over-tidy look that told they were unoccupied than had been the case even three years before, when last he had been in the White City.

By the time he reached the tunnel from the sixth level up to the Citadel, the last light was fading from the sky, and stars had begun to appear on the eastern horizon. Mithrandir quickened his pace, though he suspected that the evening meal would have already begun in the Great Hall before he reached the Steward's House. In the circumstances that might be for the best. He could take a place at one of the lower tables, and seek out Denethor afterward. If, of course, he was recognized by the servants and allowed to do so.

Luck was with him. The first hurrying figure he saw in the Steward's House was one he recognized; Serindë, whom he remembered from his visit of seven years ago. As he recalled, Boromir had sponsored her brother into his own company.

She recognized him as well. "Master Mithrandir, what a surprise. I expect you'll be wanting to see Lord Denethor? He's not here."

"Not here?" Mithrandir's first reaction was annoyance, that the gate guards had not told him that the Steward was away from the city. His frown smoothed out when Serindë continued.

"He's still in the White Tower, sir. Of late he's taken to staying there longer and longer hours. But the household folk are at meat, if you wish to join the meal, and the lord Faramir is expected soon. He's in charge of the city guard, these days, and makes his last round in the evening, so he'll come in on the tail end of dinner," Serindë's chatter continued as she led the white-bearded old man down the corridor to the Great Hall. "Between you and me, sir, he'll be glad to see you. With the lord Boromir here no more than a double handful of days in the year, there's no one to make peace between Faramir and his father in their misunderstandings, though I say it as shouldn't, and I hope you won't repeat me, sir. Here you are – move down a bit, Rodnor, and make space for Master Mithrandir. He's just arrived and says he needs no ceremony, being long on the road and preferring a hot meal to cold courtesy."

"Thank you, Serindë," said Mithrandir gravely, as he sat down. The absence of the Steward did not stop his household from dining well. Mithrandir noted that the roasted pigeons might be confined to the guests of honor eating without their host at the high table, but even the lesser tables had platters of roast and boiled meat and fowl, as well as bread, cheeses, and assorted root vegetables and greens, though the latter were scant at this season, when winter's stores were depleted and the new crops barely sown in the fields.

He ate leisurely, observing the bustle of the household around him. The tables were mostly empty when Faramir came in, the firmness of his stride belied by the hand that ran worriedly through his dark hair. Clearly no one had told him that the wizard had arrived, for he walked past the lower tables without speaking. Mithrandir watched him seat himself at the end of the high table and choose his meal from what was left on the platters, rather than calling for something fresh and hot.

_He is his father's son in that. I doubt Denethor ever cares what is set before him, though he bids his servants prepare that which is proper to his estate._

Pushing his bench back from the table, Mithrandir made his way up to the end of the hall and stood near Faramir until his presence made the young man look, then leap up. Faramir's face split into a grin that made him look much younger than his twenty years.

"Mithrandir! When did you arrive, my old friend?"

"Less than two hours ago," said Mithrandir, returning Faramir's enthusiastic embrace with somewhat more dignity. "I once again require to consult the records of Gondor, and to speak to the Steward, so here I am."

"It is good to see you. Here, sit by me. Have a glass of wine and tell me of your travels. I have been trying to keep up with my study of Quenya, but I find it difficult alone." Faramir glanced along the table and spotted a clean glass, which he brought for Mithrandir. "Where did you go? What adventures did you have?"

The storyteller in Mithrandir urged him to respond at length, but he did not think this the best time or place. "Later," he said. "You tell me first – how fare yourself and your family, the city and the kingdom?"

Faramir fit his reply in around quick bites. The speed with which his heaped plate was emptied would have astonished the wizard, had he not many times seen much smaller bodies consume with even greater gusto.

"You probably know the kingdom as well as I; oh, I hear both rumor and report, of course, but I have not been out of Minas Tirith, except to the river docks, since the autumn before last. Our borders to the east are hard-pressed, but that is no different from ever. Rohan is under pressure too; I think it was the same year as your last brief visit that the lord Éomund of Rohan was slain by Orcs on the Emyn Muil. In much of the rest of Gondor all has been well enough, though in the west the harvest was not good." Faramir frowned. "There's always a certain amount of small troubles, sheep-stealing, banditry, and the like, and that seems to have been greater these past few years; not that I remember for myself, but so I hear from Duinhir of Morthond and others of the lords that it is so."

He stretched to reach the platter of sliced meats, and Mithrandir obligingly pushed it closer to him.

"Thank you," Faramir said, spearing several more pieces with his knife and transferring them to his plate. "Now, in the city we have not had an increase in crime, though I would attribute that as much to the watchfulness of the guard as anything else."

"I understand that you are now in command of the city watch?" said Mithrandir.

"Yes." Faramir's face colored. "Boromir is Captain of the White Tower, of course."

Mithrandir understood without any need for further explanation. The Steward's Heir traditionally commanded the White Guard – an honorary company, whose primary duty was to guard the ruler, it harked back to the days of the kings. They were also the last defense of the city. Though their usual duties were ceremonial, their training was strict. Although Boromir spent most of his time on the eastern borders, he retained his title as their captain, even if effective control devolved to his official second-in-command – who was not, evidently, his brother. It did not surprise Mithrandir that Faramir's part was to supervise the far more quotidian, and far less prestigious, city guard. To himself, he considered it a good duty for the lad; Faramir knew much of the theory of rule, through his studies, but needed to learn something of its practice. Whatever the future might hold for the sons of Denethor, he felt sure that an ability to organize and command would serve Faramir well, and he said as much.

"That's what Boromir told me, too," Faramir said, "but I wish that I had a chance to serve with one of the fighting units, as he did well before he had reached my age."

"This serves your people as well," said Mithrandir. _And I wonder if you really wish to fight._

"Oh, I know that," said Faramir, now looking at least as much older than his years as he had looked younger before. "Rest assured, Mithrandir, I do not forget my responsibilities to my lord and my people." He swallowed the last bite of mutton and shoved his plate away. "Of which I have a pleasant one to carry out at the moment. Since my father is not yet informed of your presence, may I offer in his stead to direct rooms to be prepared for you? There are several empty apartments on the walls, I know, though perhaps not those as you have had before."

"I should be delighted. Do you know when your father might be available, Faramir? Your hospitality is generous, but I do need to speak with the Steward himself and ask his permission to search through his records once again."

"The Lord Steward has not made known to me his plans for this day," began Faramir formally, then dropped back into his usual tones. "But I would expect him to come back within an hour, two at most. He used to at least stop for the evening meal, though sometimes he had to return again later, but now he claims that he has not the time to waste. And he goes back to the White Tower almost every night. I often see lights flickering from his window until the middle night. But as I say, he should be here for a time first."

"Good. I would like to begin my studies tomorrow, if possible, for I too have no time to waste," said Mithrandir.

"I'll send to have your rooms readied, but in the meantime, come up to the family quarters; Father will be most likely to come there, since it's now well past mealtime," Faramir offered.

Walking up the stairs behind Faramir, Mithrandir considered the changes that the past three years had wrought. The lad was taller, if perhaps not yet to his full man-height, and had put on some muscle – closer to man than boy. Not the strong build of Boromir, but he would make a passable warrior, if that should be his destiny. Mithrandir hoped not. Faramir's quick intellect might make him a good tactician and strategist on the field, but it would be wasted there, compared with what he might do in the larger arenas of political maneuvering. Oh, he was his father's true child, in more ways than one.

"Will you be here long?" inquired Faramir, when he had given his guest a glass of wine, gleaming blood-red in the crystal. "Your last visit was far too brief. I should very much like to learn again from you, if you are willing, as I did seven years ago, when you first taught me some Quenya."

"I do not know how long I will stay," said Mithrandir. He started to pull his pipe from its pouch, then reconsidered. Denethor was not fond of the aroma of pipeweed, and he could have an evening smoke later in his own quarters. "There are matters beyond Gondor that I must attend to, as well." He spared a fleeting thought for the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, back in the Shire, now master of Bag End and heir to all his cousin had had – books, furniture, and a plain gold ring. The ring worried him. It might be one of the lesser Elf-rings; he hoped to find out, here, if he could. Galadriel in Lothlórien might also know something, since she had been close to Celebrimbor, maker of many such rings. "But I imagine I could spare a few evenings to you, at least, if you have time then."

"Most evenings I do, although part of my duties include checking on the night-watchmen; not every night, however. And once a week I spend an evening with Beleg the smith. I spent the best part of a year learning smithcraft from him, just the rudiments but enough to be able to shoe a horse or mend a sword at need. He's old now, but a good man, and I like to visit with his family," said Faramir.

Mithrandir saw a flush of red on Faramir's cheek, and guessed, "And he has a pretty daughter or granddaughter, does he not?"

"You have found me out," said Faramir, ducking his head but smiling. "Yes, he does. But I would not take advantage of Níniel, you know. I simply enjoy being with them, where I can forget some of my responsibilities just for a while."

"As we all must, from time to time; as long as we return to them willingly." Mithrandir sipped his wine.

"I still spend a few hours with Master Golasgil each week as well. There is always more to learn of Gondor's past. But that I do in the mornings," said Faramir, and stretched out his legs. "Along with sword-practice. You can guess which I prefer, I imagine, but it is all necessary."

"In these times, it is indeed," Mithrandir said.

They sat for a time in comfortable silence, waiting for the Steward to appear. Mithrandir was nearly ready to give the man up for the night, and hope to see him in the early morning, when the heavy door swung open and Denethor stepped into the room.

His hair was still dark, his face had few lines, but for all that he had the bearing of a man older than his years, weighed by some burden not visible to the eye. _Perhaps it is only the cares of his Stewardship. Perhaps._ Mithrandir rose and greeted Denethor with a phrase of formal respect.

"Yes, Mithrandir, I heard you had come. Thank you, Faramir, I will not need you further tonight," Denethor dismissed his son. "What is it you want of me now, wizard? For you are ever readier to seek aid than give it."

Mithrandir held onto his patience. "Merely to look through your records again, Lord Denethor, as I have done before."

"Indeed." Denethor fixed him with a cold eye. "Your colleague Curunir has spent much time in my libraries as well. What can be the attraction of Gondor's history to such as yourselves?"

"Would you have us look to Rohan for ancient lore?" Mithrandir's voice was light. "To the lost north-kingdoms? Gondor, my lord, is the sole repository for such things; the Elves have their own histories, but they reck little of your people."

"True. Well, I suppose if you must, you must. Let it not be said that Denethor of the line of Mardil hindered any who wished to learn more of this land. But confine yourself to that, to the archive and these halls. I do not want to hear that you have been spreading miscontent or doubts among my people," said Denethor.

"I would never deliberately do so," Mithrandir said quietly, "but if you wish, I will keep to the Citadel while I am here."

"That would be my wish," said Denethor. "I am told that my son has ordered quarters to be readied for you. They are yours as long as you stay, and you shall dine in my hall." He rose. "The hour is late, and I have much yet to do this night."

Recognizing his dismissal, Mithrandir thanked the Steward for his hospitality, and made his way downstairs towards the Great Hall, where he was sure he could find someone to ask where he was to be lodged. Faramir met him at the foot of the stairs. "Well?"

"I have permission to use the records," said Mithrandir, "but I am to limit myself to the boundaries of the Citadel while I remain in the city."

"That is without doubt the most ri-," Faramir cut himself short. "Father always has reasons for what he does, but I cannot imagine what he is thinking this time. Perhaps he will be in a more gracious mood tomorrow."

"It is to be hoped, but it does not really matter. I will be able to carry out my task here. Now, Faramir, if you would be so good as to show me where I am to sleep, I would be very thankful."

"You are to have one of the apartments on the wall, overlooking the rest of the city. There is even a balcony with a chair where you can sit and smoke to your heart's content," said Faramir.

"Ah, you know my habits all too well," said the wizard. "Would you care to join me?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. It is one of my nights to inspect. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Well enough," said Mithrandir. "Is Master Ulbar still the archivist, by the way?"

"He certainly is. I do not think he will ever give it up; he will wither away in there until they carry him out like a dried-up beetle," said Faramir. "He will be as delighted to see you as I am." Shyly, he embraced Mithrandir. "Until tomorrow."

Mithrandir looked after him as he strode away, then made his way out to the promised balcony. He sat down heavily in the chair and tamped weed into his pipe, sending a thin stream of smoke gusting from his lips, in no mood to play at smoke-rings as he so often had done. _There may be more to be done here in Minas Tirith than I had thought._


	2. Faramir Decides

**II. Faramir Decides**

Early the following morning, Faramir waited in the antechambers to the White Tower until the Steward should have a few minutes to spare for him. Usually he would make his weekly report on order in the city later in the day, but he wished to make a request and hoped that his father might be better pleased to grant it at this hour.

"Yes, what is it?" Denethor pulled a leaf of parchment across the polished surface of the table, glanced over it, and set it on the stack of items approved. "You are early to bring your report, Faramir."

"Indeed, sir." Faramir bowed. He had learned early that when he dealt with Denethor as liege to Steward, it was best to be formal and not presume on the ties of kinship. "I wished to ask something of you as well, after telling you how matters stand in the city."

"Go on," said Denethor, and Faramir launched into his account, listing the numbers of miscreants apprehended – mostly petty thieves, or traders accused of misrepresenting their goods, but there was a case of attempted rape in the fourth level of the city as well. One man had been drunk on watch four nights previously, and had been reprimanded and fined; his partner had been fined a lesser amount for having failed to report the matter. Faramir passed the written report over to the Steward for his seal; it would then be sent down to Master Ulbar and filed appropriately in the archives under the old King's House.

"And what did you want to ask of me?"

Faramir kept his expression carefully neutral. "I wished to ask if I might study with the wizard Mithrandir, sir, as you permitted me to do some years ago."

Denethor raised his eyebrows. "Study with Mithrandir? I think your time would be better spent in other ways. If you wish to study with a wizard, Curunir would be the one I would recommend."

"Curunir?" said Faramir blankly. "Why, sir?"

"He understands power and the necessities of governance," said Denethor. "He could teach you far more that would be of use to you than that wandering fool Mithrandir. Why, he has no real home, he merely wanders from place to place, sponging off others' hospitality for his livelihood.

"Now, Curunir not only understands power, he has it, and uses it. I was only a stripling at the time, but I remember hearing from my grandfather Turgon how Curunir led the assault on Dol Guldur, and thrust the Necromancer out of that stronghold. Curunir has held the keys to Orthanc since the time of the nineteenth steward and often both consulted and aided the rulers of this land. You would be far better advised to seek his instruction and counsel than that of the wanderer Mithrandir."

Faramir listened to his father's speech with a dismay that he concealed. He had met the white wizard more than once, most recently some eighteen months before when Curunir had visited Minas Tirith briefly. The wizard had never been more than coolly polite to the Steward's younger son; certainly he had not the personal interest that Mithrandir had expressed. In Faramir's mind, too, though Curunir might indeed have power of his own sort, all he did was sit in Orthanc, whereas Mithrandir in his wanderings had his finger on the pulse of the people, and what they thought and did.

"I understand your point, sir, but Curunir has never appeared to be interested in teaching others," Faramir began, "whereas Mithrandir is, and is here now and prepared to do so. Would it not be sensible to take advantage of that?"

"If I were certain that he would not cozen you into disloyalty – oh, don't protest to me that you would not do anything disloyal, you do not know his ways as I do. You are not aware as I am, from Curunir and from elsewhere, of whither Mithrandir goes when he is not in Gondor and to whom he speaks. No. I forbid you to study with him. Indeed I do not wish you to even speak to him except as courtesy demands; were he not who he is I would ban him from the city, but as it is I must tolerate his presence," Denethor said in flat tones.

"But –"

Denethor cut off his son's protest with a sweeping gesture. "No, I said. You see? Already you are showing greater respect to this vagabond than to your own lord and father. Do I need to make myself plainer?"

Faramir had turned white at the accusation that he would be disloyal to the Steward. Now he shook his head mutely and bowed his head.

"Very well, then. Be off about your duties, and allow me to tend to mine." Denethor gave a curt nod and returned his attention to the stack of documents before him.

Closing the door of the Steward's chamber behind him, Faramir repressed a grimace. It would not do to let his father's secretary Malbeth know of the discord between them. That man gossiped worse than any alewife. He had often wondered why the Steward kept Malbeth in a position of such responsibility; he had to presume that Malbeth must report all the news of the city to Denethor and yet keep sensitive matters away from common ears. So he forced a cheerful smile and walked out of the White Tower with a purposeful stride, but once in the open air his pace slowed and his smile faded.

_Forbidden to study with Mithrandir? Not even to speak with him unless I must do so in courtesy, as for any guest? Father has never been a foolish man, but this is uncalled-for. What can he be thinking?_

The question gnawed at him for the rest of the day, even as he went through his usual routines. Meeting with the Steward meant only an hour or so that he could spend with Master Golasgil, and then there was the necessary sword-training which he practiced with the White Guard under the eye of Swordmaster Hallas. A hasty bite when the sun was high, and then the tedious task of assigning the new watch-lists for the city guard. Faramir stretched when he rose to go to dinner in the Hall, shaking the cramp out of ink-stained fingers and hearing the muscles of his back creak in protest at the change to motion from inactivity.

He caught Mithrandir's eye as he entered the great room, and shook his head slightly to indicate that he could not talk just then. _It would insult him if I told him that the Steward has forbidden me to learn from him. And I_ do _wish to learn_, he thought rebelliously. _What harm can it possibly do? My father thinks Mithrandir would persuade me to forget my loyalty to my lord and to Gondor, but he is wrong. My oath to my brother, seven years ago, bids me to learn all that I can, however I can, in order to serve him to the best of my ability. That must take precedence over all else, even the command of the Steward, must it not? Or do I merely search for ways to justify my own desire? I wish Boromir were here, so that I might ask his advice, but he is not. I must make this decision myself._

He rose reflexively for the Standing Silence with the rest, his thoughts whirling. The food on his plate disappeared without his tasting it, and he responded to the conversation around him automatically, having heard it with only a small part of his attention.

_If I go to Mithrandir, I cannot tell him that Denethor has given permission, for that would be to lie. I can choose to disobey, but I should not ask the wizard to; and besides, he might then refuse, and I could not bear that. If I am careful, my father will never know to be angry at my failure to comply with his orders. But what if he does learn of it? I will simply have to convince him that he was wrong in his decision, that my studying with Mithrandir was for the good of Gondor and in no way disloyal. Surely he will see reason once the thing is done._

Faramir made up his mind. After the meal was over, he slipped through the shadows of the early spring evening to the rooms he had assigned to Mithrandir, and knocked at the door.

"Come in," he heard the wizard call.

As he entered he could smell the scent of Mithrandir's pipe from the balcony, the fragrant smoke wafting in through the open doors.

"It's a delightful evening," Mithrandir said without turning around. "I would offer you a pipeful, but you do not smoke, do you, Faramir?"

"I never have, but I will try it, if you have a spare pipe I might use," Faramir responded. He listened carefully to Mithrandir's explanation of how to fill the bowl properly and light the tamped-down weed with a taper, but coughed mightily as he sucked in the first lungful of smoke.

"How can you do this?" he choked out, his eyes watering so that everything appeared through a red mist. He tried again, more cautiously.

"Years of practice, my lad," said Mithrandir, propping his feet against the balcony rail. "Don't try to inhale the whole of it at once. Let a little fresh air in too."

Faramir puffed again. "I suppose it's all right, but goodness, whoever first thought of doing this?"

"Ah, a small folk who dwell in Eriador. I believe I mentioned them to you once before; the Periannath, they are called. They have been smoking this particular weed for several centuries now, according to their own lore and legends." Mithrandir smiled into his beard, and Faramir wondered if perhaps the wizard had not instigated the idea; but when he inquired, the wizard denied it.

"No, the plant came first from Númenor, and has flourished here in Gondor in the wild since your folk came hence – you may know it as sweet galenas. I am no herbalist and I had nothing to do with its spread into the north as a garden plant, nor did I suggest this use for it to anyone. The Periannath invented that all on their own, though I confess to acquiring the habit soon thereafter, and to having shared it with more than one young man since," Mithrandir said. "But you did not come here to hear me discourse on pipe-weed, I think?"

Faramir shook his head, saying, "No, I wished to ask again if you would be willing to teach me, perhaps every other evening or so, for an hour or three?" He looked through the railing rather than meet Mithrandir's too-penetrating gaze.

"Can you find the time?" the wizard asked. "It will not interfere with your other responsibilities, given by the Steward?"

"I will spend no time with you that I cannot spare from my duties," said Faramir, now looking directly back. He caught a flicker of doubt in Mithrandir's expression.

"If you are certain," said Mithrandir. "Every other evening, you said? Since I am not to leave the Citadel and go roaming about the city, I am likely to be about whenever you choose. Though I might look up Master Ulbar on occasion, if I can pry him away from his beloved scrolls. I don't expect to see much of him during the days, he is far too busy."

"Wonderful," said Faramir, relieved. "I was hoping that you might be willing to work with me on my Quenya; I have found it difficult to make much progress on my own, and languages are not Master Golasgil's strong point. And if there is anything more you can tell me about the lands outside Gondor – the Elvish realms, for instance – I would love to learn all I could of those from someone who has been there, and recently. Few of our histories say much of what lies beyond the southlands, with perhaps a little of Rohan, since the fall of the northern kingdoms."

"And what do you propose to do with such knowledge? Your brother will be the next Steward, not you."

Faramir hesitated. Mithrandir had learned seven years before that the sons of Denethor had agreed that while Boromir might be the ruling Steward, Faramir would be his right hand and advisor. So much was only to be expected. But none except Faramir and Boromir themselves knew that they had gone so far as to take oath on it; and the brothers had agreed that it was to be kept secret.

"Oh, well, when Boromir is Steward I shall have to find something to occupy my time, shall I not?" he said lightly, though this second deception of the wizard weighed on him. _I wish I did not have to keep silent, but it must be done._ "Better to turn to dusty manuscripts than to kick my heels hoping for a fight."

"That would depend on the fight," said the wizard gravely. "Stopping needless disputes is always worth doing. But if you mean hoping for an attack by Gondor's enemies, then I must agree with you. Battle is never something one should hope for, not when other alternatives are possible." He scratched at one white-haired cheek. "Of course, sometimes the alternatives may be worse. But we can speak of that another time. After conferring with Master Ulbar and hearing what he has squirreled away in some of his cupboards, I think I shall be here for several months. Unless the Steward changes his mind and demands that I leave before then, that is," he concluded with a wry smile. "I confess myself surprised that he was willing to permit you to study with me, given that he considers me one likely to provoke discontent among the good people of this city."

"He did say that he felt my time could be spent better," said Faramir. _Which is true, it is simply not the_ whole _of what he said._

"Well, as long as he agreed in the end, no matter." Mithrandir relit his pipe and drew on it in evident pleasure. "I'll expect to see you two nights from now, then. Bring whatever bit of Quenya you've been working on and we'll begin with that, shall we?"

"All right." Faramir set down his borrowed pipe with a certain relief. He had not wholly disliked it, but was glad that Mithrandir had suggested he take a second pipeful. "Rest well, Mithrandir. I hope your researches are fruitful."

"Thank you, Faramir. Leave the balcony door open when you go, if you will."

Faramir left the wizard's rooms as quietly as he had come, keeping to the shadow of the walls until he was close to the great bronze doors into the Steward's House. Nodding to the doorkeeper, he headed up to his own chambers on the third floor. He had no fear that Denethor would see him; he had seen light flickering at the top of the White Tower, a sure indication that the Steward was still working at this hour. It occurred to Faramir that Denethor only seemed to work in the topmost chambers at night; their meeting that morning had been in the usual room, which was on the first floor above the courtyard. He supposed that was because many of the Steward's visitors would be unwilling or unable to climb the many flights of stairs to the top.

Kicking off his shoes, Faramir took up the candlestick from the table and lighted it from the sconce in the corridor before shutting the door to his room. He took a handful of raisins from the bowl that he kept on the table – it was too far to run down to the kitchens every time he needed a bite to eat – and ate them one by one, mulling over what he had done that day.

_I don't think I've ever deliberately disobeyed Father like that before. Done foolish things that I knew, or should have known, he would disapprove of, yes._ He remembered with embarrassment a certain day when he had followed Boromir and some other older boys up into the mountains without permission, only to fall and knock himself senseless. He had had to be carried back to Minas Tirith, and his father had given the ultimate criticism – that he had acted dishonorably. _But he had not before then forbidden me. This time I cannot claim in any way that I thought it would be acceptable; Father left me in no doubt of his decision. But it was a wrong decision, and I cannot abide by it. I will not. Whatever the consequences may be, I must do as my conscience bids, and I feel that to serve myself and my brother best, to serve Gondor best, I must learn from Mithrandir whatever he can teach._


	3. The Teacher and the Taught

**III. The Teacher and the Taught**

Over the next few weeks Mithrandir and Faramir fell into a steady routine. Mithrandir's days were invariably spent in the archive, except for Valanya, the last day of the week, when it was closed. Those evenings that Faramir did not come to him, he spent sometimes in conversation with Master Ulbar the archivist, or Master Golasgil Faramir's old tutor, or both, talking of Gondor's past. Other nights he walked along the wall that encompassed the Citadel, speaking courteously to the guards but neither saying nor asking anything that was likely to reach Denethor's ears.

Every second night, however, Faramir came to his rooms and they studied together for several hours. Mithrandir obtained permission from Ulbar to bring certain manuscripts out from the archive, though the wizard did not mention that the Steward's son as well as himself would be reading them. The rapid progress that Faramir made startled Mithrandir.

"You said that you found Quenya difficult, and yet your ability has developed so quickly," he remarked to the young man one evening as they rerolled the scrolls they had been examining and tied the ribbons to bind them.

"It is because of the way you showed me that Sindarin and Quenya have common roots," said Faramir. "Take the word for eagle, which in Sindarin is _thôr_, or _theryn_ if there is more than one; the Quenya _soron_, or _sorni_, seems quite different. Yet once I understood that the word used before the two tongues were sundered was probably _thoron_, it all began to fall into place.(1) I had been studying Quenya on my own, as you know, but I had never quite seen the connections between it and Sindarin in that way before you explained it."

"I see. I must say that I do not know what else I can teach you of High-Elven. From now it will simply be a question of learning unfamiliar words as you meet them in reading; and that is the case with any language, Westron, Sindarin, or Quenya," said Mithrandir.

"Perhaps there is other knowledge you might share with me?" Faramir asked diffidently. "You have traveled so far, seen so much."

"Mmph. Yes, well, we can discuss some things, the night after next, if you wish." _Why do I feel that there is something particular he hopes to learn? Perhaps I am imagining things._

When Faramir knocked at the door of Mithrandir's rooms two nights later, he looked glum.

"What is the matter?" Mithrandir inquired.

"Bad news from the western provinces, around the cape of Andrast and up the valley of the River Lefnui. I think I have mentioned that the harvest was poor in that region last year? And the spring has been late and cold. There are reports of shortages, even famine," said Faramir. "The Steward is still gathering information, but he speaks of sending me to organize aid."

"Have you thought of how you will do it?"

Faramir frowned. "A little. The trouble is that nowhere in Gondor was the harvest exceptionally good last fall, and our stores everywhere are low at this time of year. Tarondor's law of the seventeenth century establishing granaries in each province with fifty thousand or more inhabitants was a good one, but when there is no grain to put into the bins, it is not very effective. The greatest reserves are here in the east, but to transport enough grain to where it is needed will not be easy, even if we can spare it from the army's stocks. And then there is the question of payment. Some of the grain supplies are owned by the Steward for Gondor, but much is in other hands. They cannot be denied a reasonable price and profit, but neither can they be allowed to gouge the western farmers, or it will do as much harm as good. I think the Steward will have to decree a fixed price, high enough to tempt the sellers, but low enough that the hungry can pay it."

"And if they cannot pay?" asked Mithrandir.

"I do not know. I suppose that there will be some who may be forced to sell whatever they have, in order to eat. Some may lose their holdings and have to travel to seek employment as far away as Edhellond, or Linhir, or even Minas Tirith. But I hope that the lords – Golasgil son of old lord Herion of Anfalas, and Urthel of Andrast, for instance – will be prepared to help their tenants who are most in need, insofar as they themselves are able. The land is only as strong as its lord's protection makes it. Or would you recommend a different course of action, Mithrandir?"

"No, your plan seems suitable. As long as there is not another failure of the harvest there this year, it ought to suffice," Mithrandir said, sipping from his goblet.

"Another thing that I am suggesting to the Steward is to instruct the mints at Pelargir and Edhellond to coin a larger number of halfpennies and farthings," said Faramir. "Not a greater amount of money in total, but more of the smaller coins in proportion to the larger."

"Why do you propose that?" Mithrandir sounded puzzled. "If grain is scarce and costly, would it not be that more pennies and even crowns are needed to make transactions easier, rather than the smaller denominations?"

"For exactly that reason." Faramir's face shone with enthusiasm. "I think that if men must trade with great bagsful of small silver, they may remain more reasonable in their demands. Moreover, it will allow the poor to purchase smaller amounts more readily. If a farthing buys a single loaf, better to do so daily, fresh, instead of having to buy more than is needed or wanted at one time. There may have to be a proclamation to fix the price of bread as well as that of grain, but Minas Tirith has long had such regulations. The smaller towns will live with it just as the White City has."

_Sound thinking – mostly, at any rate. I shall be interested to see if his ideas about coin prove workable; I do not think such a strategy has ever been tried. Not in my recollection nor in any of my readings either._ "Where did you learn that idea?" Mithrandir continued his thought aloud.

"Nowhere, really," said Faramir. "I saw in the annals kept during previous years of famine that one of the hardships experienced by the poor was the inability to buy small amounts. I do not know that simply having more small coins available will solve the problem, but I think it will not hurt, and may help."

Mithrandir nodded gravely. "It may. Have you considered looking outside of Gondor for help, too? Or do you think this not a great enough crisis to warrant such action?"

"Look to Rohan, I suppose you mean? It had not occurred to me. They are horse-breeders, mostly, not grain-growers; though they do also till some fields, I have not known them to sell much of their harvest outside their own lands."

"I was thinking less of wheat and barley than of some of the other crops: cabbages, onions, potatoes, and the like. All of those store and travel well. Not as well as grain, but well enough. If you send north to Rohan now, barges could be bringing food down river perhaps within a week, and begin reaching the western districts within a fortnight, in time to make a difference. The spring flood has crested on the rivers and transport should be little trouble," said Mithrandir.

"That is an option I had not considered," Faramir mused. "Which I should have done. Yes, I will suggest that to the Steward as well. Thank you, Mithrandir, for the idea."

The wizard shrugged it off. "There will still be the question of paying Rohan," he said.

"Oh, indeed, but I think that we can manage that. Grain may be scarce but we have stockpiles of fine fabrics, some our own make and some traded from the Southrons. The Rohirrim are usually eager to buy both," said Faramir. "The pot could be sweetened further with weaponry, if necessary, though I hope it will not be. In such troubled times as these it is good to have large store of weapons for our own army; that was one of the reasons why Tarostar Rómendacil was slain in battle by the Easterlings in the early days of the realm, because his men did not have sufficient arms and armor available to re-equip themselves when needed. Or so the chroniclers have told it."

The two talked for nearly another hour, turning aside from the concerns of the present to discuss the tribulations of past rulers, and how they had overcome them or failed to do so. Faramir at last yawned and apologized, saying that he should leave before the night grew any older.

"If my father does send me out of the city to cope with the western troubles, however, I will be sure to let you know before I leave," he promised.

Five days later, a well-folded and sealed message was delivered to the wizard as he was immersed in deciphering an especially faded document, deep in the recesses of Master Ulbar's domain. Mithrandir thanked the messenger and waited until he was gone to break the seal.

_Dear Mithrandir_, he read. _My apologies, but I will not have time to come bid you farewell myself. The Lord Steward is sending me to Rohan to treat with Théoden, arranging to trade cloth for root vegetables as you suggested. There are also further matters for negotiation, but of those I will not speak at this time. I expect that I will then travel directly to Anfalas to organize the distribution of those and also what grain is shipped from our eastern provinces. It may be a month or more before my return; I hope that I may see you then. Your pupil, Faramir._

Mithrandir refolded the parchment and thrust it into his pocket, wondering just what the "further matters" might be. Rumor had it that the news from the eastern front, in Ithilien, was good. Baranor, one of the guards stationed in the Citadel, had told him the previous night that there had been a skirmish lost, but that Boromir had then led a company to wipe out the nest of Orcs responsible, and done so with almost no losses for Gondor. That was the only important news of which the wizard was aware, but surely it had little to do with Rohan, except inasmuch as fewer Orcs in Ithilien meant fewer raids across the Anduin into Rohan as well.

He frowned to himself. _It would not be something to do with Curunir, now would it?_ He knew that his fellow wizard had also spent much time in Minas Tirith, searching for any information that might further his pursuit of Ring-lore. Curunir's dwelling in Orthanc was not within Théoden's dominions, but marched with them; though if Faramir had been ordered to treat with Curunir, Mithrandir thought that the lad would have said as much, even if he did not say why. There was no point in inquiring of Denethor. The Steward had scarcely acknowledged Mithrandir's presence since his arrival. Time would have to reveal what Faramir had merely hinted.

**Note:**  
(1) The information on the Sindarin and Quenya terms for "eagle" is derived from _The Lost Road_, volume 5 of _The History of Middle-earth_, in the section on the Etymologies, with additions from the website Ardalambion, specifically http:www.uib.no/People/hnohf/sindarin.htm#expanded.


	4. In Rohan

**IV. In Rohan**

The sturdy grey pack-animal was loaded with his gear. Faramir finished tightening the girth on the roan gelding he had hired to ride and looked around at the two men who waited behind him. "Halmir, Arminas," he said, "you know what is necessary to do. Halmir, you will be in charge of the larger share, to go into the Lefnui valley. Speak with Golasgil of Anfalas first; he should be able to tell you which villages are most in need, and send some of his men with you to help. Arminas, take the rest to the cape of Andrast. The latest word from the lord Urthel is that the fishing villages on the coast are not in dire need, but back in the hills there are many near to starving. He, too, should have some of his own men waiting to assist with transport. The supplies are all loaded onto the boats and ready to depart, and you have your sealed letters of authorization from Lord Denethor; is there anything else you need?"

Halmir shook his head. Brown-eyed Arminas, his hillman ancestry evident in both eyes and rust-colored hair, asked, "Will you be following us later, sir?"

"I am not certain. It will depend on how long my errand to King Théoden takes, and what its result is. So you should carry on without expecting me," said Faramir. He watched as the two men bowed in farewell, and boarded the boats at the river-dock here below the Falls of Rauros. It had taken him only a few days to arrange the matter, thankfully, since every hour of delay meant another hour that children would go hungry in western Gondor. The three small boats were laden with barrels of turnips, onions, and potatoes, and a lesser amount of smoked and salted pork and hard pale cheese. Barley and wheat were already on their way from Lebennin; Faramir had not had to arrange that, for Denethor had sent word to Dorlas of Pelargir to do so.

Now that the immediate needs of his people were being seen to, it was time for Faramir to begin the other part of his mission in Rohan. The journey to Edoras could be made in four days if he hurried, but Faramir planned to ride at a more leisurely pace and arrive at the king's hall in late afternoon on the fifth day. Though he would be crossing the Entwash at an established ford, in this wet spring the ground for miles around would doubtless be sodden and slow going. _Better to be cautious_, thought Faramir, _and in any case it will give me more time to think about how best to broach the matter for which I am sent._

He should not have been surprised by his mission. Faramir himself had once made the suggestion to Boromir, only half in jest, that his brother should wed Théoden's niece. When Boromir had passed on the notion to Denethor, seeking to distract his father from any idea that he should wed a suitable girl of Gondor immediately, the Steward had regarded it with favor, despite an expressed wish that Boromir himself had put forward the plan, rather than Faramir. Nothing had been done about the matter in the past seven years, however, although Faramir did not know why his father had waited. Perhaps because both parties were still young; Boromir was only just of marriageable age this year, and the girl – what was her barbaric name? Éowyn? – a mere child yet. A betrothal would seal the alliance between Gondor and Rohan, but no wedding could take place for some years. Denethor must have some reason to make this proposal now; had he heard that Théoden was beginning to make other plans for his niece? Faramir supposed he would soon find out.

As he had expected, the sun was halfway down the sky on the fifth day's travel from the Anduin when he saw the golden roof of Meduseld gleaming above the clutter of houses that crouched behind the walls of Edoras. At the gates of the city Faramir dismounted and led his horses up the steep stone-paved streets to the green-grassed terrace where the king's house stood. When he identified himself as the son of Gondor's Lord Steward, he was greeted with courtesy, his animals taken to be stabled with the king's own, and he himself led to a room where he could wash and refresh himself before meeting with Théoden.

He shook the worst of the wrinkles out of a clean tunic and trousers, carefully saved for this purpose, and reminded himself to see about having his other garments laundered as soon as possible. Stripping away his riding-clothes, he washed off the sweat of travel. If an odor of horse still lingered, well, in Rohan it was unlikely to be noticed or occasion comment if it were. Faramir pulled on the clean clothes and stamped his feet back into his boots, then ran a comb through his dark hair, peering into the small and fly-specked mirror to see that it looked suitably tidy. He drank some water to soothe the dust of travel from his throat, but then could linger no longer. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he went off to make his duty to the king.

Théoden, Faramir was relieved to find, was far more affable than the steward of Gondor, for all that he bore a royal title. Denethor, to be sure, was courteous enough to any envoy from a foreign lord, but none would call him genial, which was the word that first sprang to Faramir's mind to describe the king of Rohan. His face was hard to read under a golden beard, and his blue eyes were sharply intelligent, but his smile was kindly as he greeted Faramir and asked his business.

"That is for your ears alone, my lord," Faramir told him. "I bear a letter from the Steward; he asks that you read it first in private, though he knows that afterward you will doubtless wish to consult with your advisors. As it will tell you, I am authorized to come to an agreement on his behalf, if you are willing."

The king raised an eyebrow. "I will read it then," he said, holding out his hand. Faramir gave him the letter, sealed with plain white wax imprinted with the rod of the Stewards. Théoden broke the seal and began to read. Faramir stepped back and waited. The king's face showed no sign of what he thought as he perused the message, but when he finished, he beckoned Faramir forward again and said, "This will take some consideration, indeed. I will not be prepared to even discuss the matter further with you for a day or two; I must call together my council and hear their thoughts first. In the meantime, you must treat my house as yours. My son Théodred is about somewhere and he will be glad to speak to you. My nephew Éomer will take you to him."

Obediently Faramir followed the younger lad out of the hall. _So, this boy might one day be Boromir's brother-in-law. Which would make him my kinsman as well._ A grin, carefully concealed, tugged at his lips when Éomer made gestures at the other young lads about the hall, indicating that he was escorting the stranger reluctantly. This task would not raise Éomer in his peers' esteem; being the king's nephew doubtless made it hard for him to make close friends. That was something about which Faramir could have written volumes himself.

"Did you have a good journey?" the boy asked him with formal politeness.

"It was well enough, I suppose, although I am not accustomed to so much riding," Faramir said. "I have spent most of my years in Minas Tirith. My brother Boromir, who serves on the eastern border, would have found it more congenial."

"I think I have met the lord Boromir." Éomer screwed up his face in concentration. "Two years ago, he came here briefly to speak with my uncle. He looked a great deal like you, sir."

"We resemble each other closely," admitted Faramir. "But as I say, he has had the opportunity to do more fighting, so he is rather broader across the shoulders than I. I seem to still be growing a bit, though, so perhaps I will still fill out to match him. And you may call me Faramir, if you wish. When you say sir, I look around for my father!"

"How old are you, if you are still growing, Faramir?"

"Twenty-two," Faramir said. "And you?"

Éomer looked disappointed. "I will have fourteen years next month. I don't want to have to wait another eight or ten years to be full-grown!"

"My family is slow about that," Faramir said. "So you might not have to wait so long as I. Look at your cousin Théodred; he would be a better example of what you have to look forward to."

"That is true. And here we are at the armory, where he should be. Théodred!" Éomer called.

From among the racks of spears and shelves of bucklers, a surprisingly high voice responded. "Éomer?"

Éomer groaned.

"What is it?" Faramir asked.

"That's not Théodred, it's my little sister. Is Théodred here, Éowyn?" he shouted again.

A small but sturdy figure appeared. Faramir looked at this girl whose marriage he was here in Rohan to arrange. She seemed younger than the ten years he knew she was, but that might be because of her boyish attire. Éowyn wore what seemed to be her brother's cast-offs, patched and darned and hanging loosely on her. Her yellow hair was braided down her back, but stray wisps had escaped and clung to her sweat-dampened forehead and neck. _I could well believe this one would become a shieldmaiden, rather than a Steward's lady, were the choice her own._

"He's gone off to the stables," Éowyn informed them. "Greymane has a sore hoof, so he's looking after his horse."

"You're not supposed to be in here on your own," Éomer scowled at her. "You'd better come along with us."

Éowyn looked at Faramir. "Who is this?"

"He's the son of the Steward of Gondor, lord Faramir," said Éomer. "An _honored guest_ in our uncle's house, Éowyn, and to be treated with respect." The last was said under his breath, but Faramir heard it clearly.

The girl now made a skimpy curtsey – _quite a trick to do so at all, in trousers_ – and darted out the door into the hallway. "Come on then," she said impatiently.

Faramir and Éomer followed her to the stables, where indeed Prince Théodred was treating his horse but paused to be introduced to his father's guest. Faramir liked the look of Théodred, who was fair-haired like his father and most of the Rohirrim, but had a touch of Gondor in his face as well. Théoden's mother had been Morwen of Lossarnach, so that was only to be expected. Indeed, Faramir knew that without the blood of Gondor in the veins of the royal family of Rohan, Denethor would have been less likely to consider an alliance. Privately he felt that such considerations were foolish, but it was not his to decide.

Théodred kept Faramir company much of the next few days, while Théoden and his advisors considered the proposal that Faramir had brought. The king told his son what the substance of it was, but did not require him to sit in council on the matter.

"Why not?" Faramir asked Théodred. "My father does not have me do so, either, but I am his second son. Boromir would probably be asked to sit in, if he were in Minas Tirith at least."

Théodred shrugged. "I suppose he thinks it unnecessary. I gave him my opinion already."

_And what is it?_ Propriety kept Faramir from asking, but Théodred told him anyway.

"I think that it would be a useful alliance, but it will be eight years before Éowyn is of marriageable age. Many things can happen in such a time, not least that your brother could be injured, even killed, given the dangers in Ithilien where I understand he fights against the encroachments of the Enemy."

"Your girls wed at eighteen?" said Faramir in surprise. "In Gondor our women must be twenty-five, just as the men must be."

"I have heard that the folk of Gondor live longer than we in Rohan," said Théodred. "Perhaps that is why you wed later? A man must be only twenty-one, here, to marry."

"It would make sense," agreed Faramir, "though customs seldom do make sense."

Théodred laughed. "That is certain."

On the sixth day after Faramir's arrival, he was summoned again to speak with Théoden.

"My council are agreed with me," the king told Faramir. "We believe that if Denethor is sincere in this offer – of which I have no doubt," he added, seeing the rising anger on Faramir's face that the Steward's word should be distrusted, "then it is one that we will accept, subject to certain provisos and limitations."

"And what are those?" asked Faramir warily. "I am empowered to negotiate for the Steward, but only up to a point. If I deem the conditions unsatisfactory, I will have to take them to him for further consultation."

"We agree to a betrothal between my niece Éowyn and the Steward's first-born son Boromir, but the marriage shall not take place until she is at least twenty-five. Were she to wed him younger, I fear that the folk of Gondor would think her but a child, and not show her suitable respect," Théoden said. "I remember well how my own mother was treated by the Rohirrim when we returned here; they were polite to her, but she was never one of them. I would try to ensure that my niece has every possible advantage to ensure her comfort in Gondor."

"That, I can agree to," said Faramir. "As long as it is understood that such a long betrothal in no way implies that it can be broken lightly. Lord Denethor would take that ill, I assure you."

"Of course not," the king responded.

There were other points of negotiation to be dealt with, having to do largely with the properties that each party would bring to the match, and how those would be settled on their children. Théoden insisted that if both Théodred and Éomer should die without heirs, then Éowyn's second son should be heir to Rohan. If she had no second son, then the crown should pass through a daughter; under no circumstances should the two realms be joined under a single ruler. Faramir willingly agreed to that, thinking it unlikely that so much ill-chance would occur.

Finally, Théoden asked that the betrothal be kept secret until no more than a year before the wedding. He gave no explanation for this request, and Faramir was loath to agree to it. It was not that he distrusted Théoden, or thought the king would try to use the alliance for his advantage and later break it, but he could see no good reason for it. At last he and Théoden agreed that this provision should be subject to the concurrence of Denethor himself.

Ten days had passed in Edoras, and Faramir's mission was complete. The betrothal agreement had been written out in two copies by Théoden's scribe, and one copy was carefully stowed in Faramir's saddlebag. He bade a formal farewell to the king, a more casual one to Théodred, and invited the prince to visit Minas Tirith sometime if his responsibilities permitted. Éomer and Éowyn were standing nearby for the leavetaking, and Éowyn said, "Why can we not come to see you also?"

"If you ever come to Minas Tirith, I will welcome you there," Faramir promised her. He wondered when Théoden would tell her that someday she would be traveling to Gondor for good.


End file.
